


The Whom Do You Trust Affair

by GabiD57



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27777001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GabiD57/pseuds/GabiD57
Summary: Brainwashing is a terrible thing...
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	The Whom Do You Trust Affair

The mission had been a difficult one. Napoleon had been missing for four days, and Illya had been frantic with worry to recover him. When he found him in the abandoned THRUSH lab, he was surprised to find Napoleon relatively unharmed, but clearly drugged. Napoleon went through Medical and was kept there only eighteen hours. Dr. Donner had given him a clean bill of health, and had told Waverly merely that someone needed to keep an eye on Napoleon in case of any latent side effects from the veridical and other drugs used on him. Waverly had given Napoleon and Illya two days' recuperation time at Napoleon's apartment, with instructions to check in on occasion to report on Napoleon's progress.

Napoleon had been very sleepy, but had otherwise shown no ill effects from his enforced captivity. Illya had been very relieved at the light outcome to the mission, despite some internal misgivings about what else might have been done to Napoleon while in THRUSH's hands. He had put these misgivings aside after receiving Dr. Donner's assurances that Napoleon was fine, however, trusting to Dr. Donner's expertise over his own in this area.

After getting Napoleon home in a cab and helping him to shower and clean up, Illya fixed him some soup and a sandwich before tucking him in for the night. Illya then retired to the comfortable overstuffed couch in the livingroom and made himself at home with a book from Napoleon's library. He ate a little soup and fixed himself a sandwich before laying the book aside for the night. He changed into his light blue pajamas, brushed his teeth and washed his face, and peeked into Napoleon's room to check on him. The thin slit of light that fell on the brunet agent revealed him to be deeply and apparently comfortably asleep. Thus reassured, Illya lay on the couch and fell into a somewhat fitful sleep himself. In the morning he awoke early and read some more before dressing in simple black jeans and white shirt and fixing an easy breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and hot coffee for Napoleon and himself.

Illya stood at the door of Napoleon's bedroom and knocked, hoping to rouse his partner from his lengthy night's sleep to the breakfast he had just cooked for him. When Napoleon didn't respond to his gentle tapping, he rapped a bit harder. “Napoleon! Rise and shine! I've cooked breakfast for you – come and join me. Napoleon! Napoleon?” Illya started to become worried when he received no response, surprised that the door was locked and determined to break it down, if necessary.

Suddenly the door flew open and Napoleon stood just inside the doorway. Illya scarcely had time to register the dangerously feral look on Napoleon's face when he was grabbed by the shirtfront and yanked into the room. Napoleon slammed the door shut with his other hand and struck at Illya while he was still off-balance from Napoleon's yank. The backhanded blow sent Illya spinning into the wall, which his head struck hard. As Illya struggled to regain his footing, Napoleon advanced on him and struck again. This time Napoleon's fist connected solidly with Illya's ribs, and Illya felt one only newly healed from a recent punishing mission give way. He slid to the floor, shaking his head against the disorientation and overwhelming pain. Napoleon bent over and, grabbing Illya by the hair and his shirt collar, dragged him to his feet.

“Napoleon! It's I – it's Illya! Stop! Napo--!” Napoleon's fist slammed forcefully into Illya's mouth, splitting both lips. Illya tried to grab Napoleon's hands, only to have Napoleon take him by the shirt again and pull him forward and over. The vicious yank was accompanied by a knee to the abdomen, and Illya collapsed onto the floor. His breath was coming in short gasps and he was unable to push himself upright. Suddenly Napoleon grabbed him by the hair and shirt collar again and dragged him to the middle of the room. Illya was on the very edge of consciousness, the blood pounding in his ears and Napoleon's terribly angry face visible only through a red haze, when he felt his partner's hands close around his throat. Napoleon began slowly to choke Illya to death, and Illya was powerless to do anything about it. He tried to plead with Napoleon with his eyes, to no avail. He felt himself falling down a long, dark tunnel with Napoleon's harsh breaths coming as from a great distance – then he knew nothing.

Slowly, slowly Illya regained consciousness. His first overwhelming impression was of pain – everything hurt, and he had great difficulty drawing breath. When he finally came completely to, he realized that his wrists were handcuffed, the metal biting deeply into the tender skin there, and that both wrists and ankles were tied tightly to a chair. As he looked around to orient himself, he realized that he was in Napoleon's livingroom. Looking more closely, he saw a tray with cotton balls, syringes and several vials of amber fluid resting on an oak side table which had been moved to within several feet of where he sat. Confused, he tried to puzzle out the meaning of it when he suddenly became aware of someone standing at his back. A rough hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and forced his head forward, exposing the soft nape of his neck. Moments later Illya felt the sharp, painful prick of a needle in his neck and tried to jerk further forward to escape it. His head was held too tightly by the hair, however, and he was unable to resist the shot being administered to him.

Then his head was released and he was able to look up. What he saw chilled him to the bone. Napoleon had moved to stand in front of him, lifting Illya's head by the chin to meet his emotionless eyes. Napoleon's voice, when he finally spoke, was equally emotionless.

“This injection has some very unpleasant effects. I believe they will persuade you to tell me what you know, Genya.” Genya? Illya thought – who is Genya? Why does he think I am Genya? Illya's previous suspicions about his partner's experience at the hands of THRUSH during this latest mission seemed now to have been verified. Illya had suspected mind control and brainwashing techniques beyond any UNCLE had seen so far from its nemesis, but still Illya had not argued with Napoleon or the doctor when he had insisted on leaving medical and coming home to finish his recuperation. Now, it seemed, he was paying the price for that lapse.

A sharp slap to his cheek brought Illya's attention back to the man standing before him. The unemotional calm had disappeared, anger making heat roll off of him in waves onto his helpless prisoner. The slap, coupled with a sudden wave of intense nausea which swept over Illya, distracted him from the question Napoleon had posed to him. “How much did they pay you to betray UNCLE, Genya? Did you think it was worth the price? I'll show you today that it wasn't. I lost a lot of friends in that attack on New York HQ – and I intend to make you pay for every one of them!”

Illya couldn't repress the shudder that went through him at the icily-spoken words. His captor felt the shudder, too, and impaled Illya on hateful words. Napoleon harshly grabbed a handful of Illya's hair and forced his head back, leaning over the young Russian to stare directly into his face. “You never could take a threat, could you, Genya? Must have to do with that miserable childhood of yours. You know why those things happened to you, don't you? Because you deserved them! You're worthless and evil – I can't imagine anyone ever having a kind thought toward you, you know that? How did anyone ever tolerate having you around? There's a stench of rot about you – you poisoned everyone who ever knew you, didn't you?” 

To his horror, Illya felt tears start down his cheeks. He knew this was Napoleon, his best friend and partner, but all the same the words hurt. Not long before, in a moment of dire circumstances during a mission, when he and Napoleon had lain badly hurt in the rubble of a destroyed THRUSH compound – when he had thought that his time might be up – Illya had let his guard down and shared a bit of his past with Napoleon. He had never dreamed his revelation would come back to haunt him in such a painful way. And it was obvious to Illya that the drug Napoleon had injected him with was kicking in, as well. He felt as though acid flowed through his veins as his physical pain level increased. The drug seemed to make him more susceptible to Napoleon's words, causing each new statement to hit him with the force of a powerful physical blow. Napoleon continued to pull his head back, the pressure just short of what would be required to snap Illya's neck. Pulling himself out of his reverie, Illya heard the damning statements continue.

“The first time I ever laid eyes on you I thought to myself, this kid'll never make it. He's too young, too skinny, and too weak to stand up to Section Two fieldwork. And you know what, Genya? I was right! But tell me, when did it happen? When did they finally break you and make you theirs? Huh? It disgusts me to be in the same room with you! Just thinking about what you've done, what you've been doing all these years – it makes me want to rip your throat out! But I've had a while to think about my revenge against you, and it won't be anything so neat or simple or quick. No, my 'friend' -- I'm going to make you suffer!” Napoleon let go of Illya's hair so suddenly that his head snapped forward and he bit his cut lip hard.

The internal pain was worsening, and Illya felt himself starting to lose the battle to remain conscious. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on something – anything – positive, when a powerful backhanded blow rocked his head back and he felt his nose break. Blood came pouring out, drenching his shirt and soaking even the front of his jeans. He blinked in pain and tried to shake away the stars dancing before his eyes, but to no avail. Napoleon swore and pulled his head roughly back by the hair again, stuffing a rag or something against his face and trying to stanch the flow. Eventually he was successful, but not before Illya sat soaked in his own blood. Still grasping Illya's hair, Napoleon roughly turned Illya's head to the side, exposing his neck once again. Illya gasped as the needle found its entry. He was nearly overcome by waves of nausea, which receded as quickly as they had arisen, only to be followed by a terrible pain in his stomach. 

As Napoleon walked to the bathroom to dump the blood-soaked rag he had used on Illya, Illya sought desperately to find words to bring Napoleon out of his brainwashed state. “Napoleon! It's me, Illya. I'm not Genya. I don't know who Genya is! Please, please untie me and let me go. What is it you think I've – Genya has – done to you? Untie me and let me help you! You know I'm your friend; I would never purposely hurt you! Please, Napoleon?” Napoleon slowly returned to stand in front of Illya. Illya looked up at him hopefully. “Napoleon? I am not Genya – I am Illya. Don't you remember me?”

“Oh, I remember you. Your lies don't change anything, though, Genya. I'm not stupid – I can see evil when it's right in front of me. You think you can persuade me not to hurt you? Think again. And no, I don't know that you're my friend. In fact, I know that just the opposite is true. You're no kind of friend – you never have been. You're just a master manipulator. You've never had a friend in your life, have you? And why is that?” Napoleon continued his hurtful diatribe. Illya had, in fact, never had a friend like Napoleon, but not because he was incapable of friendship. As a child after the Second World War he'd been moved from labor camp to labor camp and then orphanage so often that there hadn't been time to develop lasting relationships, and later his studies had precluded the distraction of friendship. The several times he'd taken the chance and opened himself up, he'd been hurt so deeply by betrayal that he'd lost the ability to trust anyone, and it had taken Napoleon's gentle persistence to break down the wall Illya had erected between himself and the world as a form of self-protection.

Illya slowly became aware of a subtle but pervasive chill within his body, spreading upwards from his feet. He began to shiver, tremulously at first, and then the shivers rapidly developed into shudders which shook his slender frame. He found it harder and harder to breathe, and lights danced before his eyes. Napoleon continued to spit venomous remarks at him, but Illya could no longer decipher the words. His head hurt terribly and wobbled on his weak neck. The last thing he was aware of before slipping back into unconsciousness was yet another sting of the needle in his neck.

“What happened, Donner? Did I administer the injections in the wrong order? This shouldn't have happened, should it?” 

“No – no, you gave them in the right order, but I don't think the amounts were right. He'll have slept off most of the side effects this time and live to have another course of injections. Don't worry – you'll be able to make him pay for what he did.”

Illya thought he recognized the second voice through the haze of reawakening, but couldn't be sure. Donner? Surely not – why would an UNCLE doctor be at Napoleon's apartment, helping Napoleon with his plan of vengeance against Illya – Genya? Illya's mind was flooded with confusion and he couldn't be sure of anything. Then overwhelming pain overcame him and he moaned aloud, unable to stifle his hurt. A sudden sharp intake of breath and then a hard slap greeted him. He slowly opened his eyes to gaze blearily at Napoleon. “It wasn't a dream, after all,” he mumbled hoarsely to himself. “No, Genya – no dream. You'll wish it had been!” Napoleon crowed. The broken rib in Illya's side was throbbing and Illya's swollen faced ached badly. Yet again he tried to reason with his partner. “Na-Napoleon. Please.” He licked his lips, only to reopen a cut and feel the blood start trickling down his chin. “Napoleon. Who is Genya?”

Whack! The sudden blow was hard enough to topple Illya onto the floor, still tied to the chair. He landed face-down and felt the impact cause his nose to start rebleeding. He swallowed with some difficulty, groaning at the pain in his forehead from the hard contact with the floor. Napoleon then kicked his legs, his thighs – his side. Illya couldn't bite back the scream when Napoleon's kick contacted the broken rib. He retched, but nothing came up. Then Napoleon was on him, slapping him hard. After several blows which knocked his head hard against the bare floor, Illya lapsed back into unconsciousness.

Genya awoke to a wall of pain, shaking slightly from its effects. He felt very disoriented, trying to ascertain his surroundings and get a feel for what had transpired. His stomach was sore with hunger and his captor's blows; his head throbbed and ached badly; and his broken rib sent fire lancing through his side. But the worst pain was knowing that he had done something terrible. He just couldn't remember the details of it. He knew he was worthless and evil and that he had brought great harm to many others. He had been wanted by no one in his lonely life because of his utter worthlessness and evil. From a child he had never heard words of comfort, welcome or soothing, only invective and curses directed toward himself – now he understood why. When a child it had hurt him terribly to be so outcast, but now he saw that the others were merely protecting themselves from him. He couldn't blame them – they had been right to treat him so. He was wicked, faithless and despicable and he deserved the pain inflicted upon him. He deserved to die alone and unloved, unwanted. He had nothing to complain about. Perhaps he would be lucky, after all, and there would be no afterlife. But with his luck, Hell would turn out to be a real place, with a welcome mat rolled out just for him.

And now – what was it he had done? Even though he couldn't remember doing it, he'd obviously betrayed UNCLE and had brought about the deaths of a number of agents at the New York HQ. This was what had angered his partner so. He had sold out – strange that he couldn't remember what his price had been. He could remember none of the details of his betrayal, but Napoleon obviously did. Napoleon meant to see him dead, and Genya had no plans to oppose him. He figured he deserved to suffer. That was what happened to people like him who were born mistakes. He had deserved all the suffering, torment and deprivation of his childhood; he deserved every bit of it now; and he did NOT deserve his partner, Napoleon Solo. He regretted this most bitterly. He had wanted to be a good partner to Napoleon; he wanted to take care of him and be someone Napoleon could respect. But the hatred in his eyes was justified, it seemed. Genya had no defense against it.

Napoleon walked back into the room where Genya sat restrained on the chair, which had been righted with him still on it. He had a thin, rough metal rod in his hands, and occasionally slapped it against the palm of his hand. He walked up to Genya and forced Genya's chin up with the rod, seeing the hopelessness in the dulled blue eyes, noting Genya's listlessness. His breaths were short and shallow as he tried to find a position on the chair which didn't hurt him so, and he was battered and bloody with Napoleon's attacks on him. He looked at Napoleon as though not really seeing him but seeing through him. This angered Napoleon for some reason and he slashed Genya across the face with the thin metal rod. Genya flinched and his eyes welled with unshed tears from the biting pain of the strike. Napoleon grabbed his hair and forced his head back, exposing his pale throat. He slashed Genya across the throat with the thin metal rod, leaving a bloody welt. Genya gagged and choked, but Napoleon refused to let go of his hair, continuing to hold him in the painful position. When a voice called from somewhere else in the apartment, Napoleon roughly pushed Genya's head forward and exited the room toward the voice. 

In the bedroom where he had laid out more syringes and various colored vials, Donner stood loading more injections to be given to Genya. In his concentration on the hapless Russian, however, Donner had forgotten to administer further injections of his private chemical cocktail to the handsome senior agent. Donner had also neglected the fact that the surges of adrenaline in Napoleon's system because of his great anger were metabolizing the drugs he had been given at an accelerated rate. Napoleon's mind was slowly beginning to clear of its chemically-induced haze and he found himself suddenly unsure of what he was doing and why Donner was in his apartment. Before he had a chance to say anything, however, Donner handed him some filled syringes and told him to go inject Genya. Napoleon clearly remembered injecting Genya in the neck with something, but didn't remember all the abuse he had heaped upon the defenseless young Russian.

Napoleon took the filled syringes but, instead of heading back into the livingroom, went into his kitchen. A fierce hunger was beginning to gnaw at his belly and it became imperative for him to find something to eat. He rummaged around in his refrigerator for a few minutes and then pulled out the ingredients to make himself a quick sandwich. As he straightened up, he experienced a bout of dizziness which nearly sent him to his knees. He set the sandwich fixings on the table, pulled out a plate and butter knife, and sat down to assemble the sandwich. He had it eaten in a matter of minutes, hungrily licking his fingers when done. His head began to ache badly; he arose from the chair and left everything on the table, not clearing up after himself as was his habit. He spared a moment to wonder why the table had been set for two with cold scrambled eggs, toast and coffee, but his confused mind refused to deal with the conundrum.

He caught sight of the thin metal rod, and a sudden rage galvanized him into action. He strode into the livingroom and untied the semiconscious young man there, letting him slide limply to the floor. Napoleon stood back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest and watching with a heated gaze as the young blond lying crumpled in a bloody heap slowly regained consciousness. Very slowly the battered young man pushed himself up into a sitting position, leaning against the wall to keep from losing his balance. His still-handcuffed hands made it difficult for him to find a comfortable position. One eye was swollen nearly shut and the other tried to focus on his surroundings. As he tried to shift into a more comfortable position, Genya tried to stifle a moan which nevertheless forced itself past his cut and bruised lips. As Napoleon watched, Genya seemed to come to remembrance of his situation, dropping his head forward and uttering a broken sob. Napoleon stepped forward, brandishing the rod, and stood before the defenseless young man who slowly turned his battered face toward him. There was no fear in Genya's eyes, only a resignation born of hopelessness. He could no doubt read his death in Napoleon's eyes, and seemed to accept it. 

“I – I am sorry for what I did. I don't remember it, but truly I am sorry. I would undo my actions if that were possible. I won't ask you to forgive me because I know it is too much to ask. I won't fight you. Do as you must.” Genya's words were uttered softly. “I am sorry I could not be a better partner to you.”

At those words something snapped inside Napoleon and he grabbed Genya by the collar, yanking him to his feet with such strength that the collar tore off of Genya's shirt, burning the pale skin of the throat as it came loose. With maniacal strength, Napoleon began beating Genya with the rod. Blow after blow descended upon the helpless Russian's head, face, arms and chest, until his legs gave out and he collapsed to the floor. The thin material of Genya's shirt had shredded under the onslaught. His breath came in shallow hitching gasps as he lay there. But Napoleon's fury had not yet abated. He struck more blows, even harder blows, at Genya's legs and back, Genya's hands being whipped bloody in the handcuffs by virtue of simply being in the way of some of the blows. Genya made no effort to protect himself, yielding himself absolutely to the excruciating punishment being meted out to him by his partner, making no sound but for his labored breathing.

At long last Napoleon's strength waned and he stumbled over to his livingroom sofa to sit. He hung his head between his knees, dropping the bloody rod to the floor, slowly slipping backwards into an exhausted sleep.

Hours later Napoleon came to himself, waking stiff and sore from his slouched position on the sofa. His arms burned and throbbed and he wiped his hand over his face, trying to remember why he was at home instead of at UNCLE headquarters. Suddenly there was a loud explosion and his front door burst open, followed by a number of black-clad agents pouring in with guns at the ready, quickly securing every room of Napoleon's penthouse suite. To his amazement he saw Alexander Waverly, hat firmly on head and cane in hand, enter his apartment behind the agents. Mr. Waverly made his way over to Napoleon, fixing him with a concerned glare, but jerked his gaze away when an agent called to him in a very tense voice.

“Mr. Waverly! Over here!” A communicator was engaged and an ambulance called. Napoleon shook his head and mumbled that he needed no ambulance as he rose to follow Mr. Waverly over to the agent who had called. A number of agents were gathered in a corner of his livingroom, several of them on their knees in front of a bundle of something on the floor in the corner. Mr. Waverly turned to Napoleon with an agitated stare and demanded of him what had happened. Napoleon was unable to clear his head and looked numbly at Mr. Waverly, not understanding what he meant.

“Mr. Waverly – what are you talking about? What is that?” Napoleon asked.

“That, Mr. Solo, is your partner.”

Napoleon collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

Hours later Napoleon awoke to find himself on a bed in Medical. He had an IV attached to his left hand which appeared to contain nothing but a simple saline drip. He blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to focus on the rest of the room, and shook his head briefly in an attempt to clear it. The resultant headache convinced him not to repeat the action. The lights in the room were muted and there was no sound but for the slight beeping of some kind of monitor attached to his chest. 

The door to Napoleon's room slowly opened and Mr. Waverly entered. Without thinking, Napoleon tried to sit upright but with a slight moan of pain he slid back down. Mr. Waverly came up to him and looked down at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Mr. Waverly. What day is it? Why am I here?”

“Don't you remember anything about the last few days, Mr. Solo?”

“No ... no, there's just a jumbled blur of images in my mind. I'm sure they must be nightmares, although they seem so real. And my right arm is aching so much, but not my left. I feel like I did when I had javelin practice back in college – as though the pain is from overuse.”

A doctor with whom Napoleon was unfamiliar came quietly into the room while Napoleon spoke. He glanced at Mr. Waverly, who nodded at him, and proceeded to empty the contents of a syringe into the port of Napoleon's IV.

“What was that, Mr. Waverly? What did he just inject?”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Solo. It was merely a mild sedative.”

“What do I need a sedative for?”

“I have some unpleasant news for you, and in your present condition you need the sedative to be able to accept what I am going to tell you.”

Napoleon felt a cold ball of fear settle in his stomach as he tried to imagine what the unpleasant news might be. He didn't appear to be physically harmed. Had some slow-acting poison been introduced into his system which was killing him by inches? Suddenly some images popped into his mind which were associated with Illya, and he felt the fear rise to his throat. He also felt the sedative as it began flooding his system, thankful for the lassitude it induced in him.

Mr. Waverly cleared his throat and began to speak. “Mr. Solo, do you remember anything which happened in your apartment recently?”

“No, sir, I don't. As I said, there are some vague images in my mind, but no clear memories.”

“Do you remember collapsing in your apartment?”

Napoleon was surprised to hear this. “No, I don't.”

“Well, Mr. Solo, I do not like to tell you this. Apparently Dr. Donner – you do remember him, do you not? -- used a new technique on you to brainwash you. He was also in your apartment when I and the team arrived, and he was attempting to escape out of a back door. Fortunately, your security system stymied him and he was unable to get out.”

“Hey, I'll have to tell Illya that one. He's the one who adjusted the system on the back door so that only someone who knew of his alterations would be able to get out.”

“Yes, well ...” Mr. Waverly cleared his throat before continuing. “Your last mission left you without physical injuries but as I said, Dr. Donner was able to use a new technique on you during the day and a half you were in Medical with him to complete the process started while you were held prisoner by THRUSH. You were sent home with Mr. Kuryakin to recuperate. Mr. Kuryakin offered to keep an eye on you.”

“Did he – that was good of him.”

“Yes, it was, Mr. Solo. Unfortunately, while you are recovering well from your experience, it appears that Mr. Kuryakin is not.”

Anxiety surged in Napoleon's chest. His friend was hurt? What had happened? Why couldn't he remember anything? Again jumbled images of Illya flashed through his mind.

“Mr. Waverly, please. Please – I have to know. What's happened to my partner?”

“Mr. Solo, this is difficult. You are my best agent and I consider you absolutely trustworthy and honorable. But apparently Dr. Donner's new technique convinced you somehow that Illya was an enemy agent responsible for a highly successful attack on New York Headquarters, and you 'punished' him for it. Most severely, I might add.”

“Oh, God! What did I do, Mr. Waverly? What did I do?”

“He has quite a catalog of injuries, Mr. Solo. In fact, at this moment he is hanging onto life by the merest thread. He has suffered a great deal of blood loss, among other things. I am deeply sorry to have to inform you of this. I am well aware of your deep friendship with Mr. Kuryakin.”

Napoleon closed his eyes as the images threatened to overwhelm him. In his mind's eye he saw himself manhandling the Russian agent and sinking needles from loaded syringes deep into the tender neck. He saw wide blue eyes looking at him beseechingly as he wrapped powerful hands around that slender throat. He saw his own quite uncharacteristic fury as he beat Illya with a rough metal rod. It didn't matter to him that the fury was drug-induced. Napoleon covered his face with his hands as the images became stronger and clearer. He started rocking back and forth but settled when he felt the strong grip of his superior take his shoulders.

“Oh, God, Mr. Waverly. I remember! I remember what I did to him – oh my God! Oh my God!”

Napoleon was scarcely aware of the snick of a closing door when he felt a sudden warmth flush through his veins and his mind went blank. He slid gladly, welcomingly, into darkness.

*******

Napoleon slowly opened his eyes. It took him several moments to recognize his surroundings, and when he did, full memory came rushing back. He sat bolt upright in the bed and began breathing rapidly and erratically. Into the dim room came the doctor he had seen before, and another IV push was inserted. Napoleon felt the calming effects immediately, and lay back as his limbs felt drained of strength. But an overriding thought came to him and he spoke to the doctor.

“Doctor, I have to see Illya. I have to see him.”

“Mr. Solo, do you really think that that's a wise idea at the moment?”

“I don't know about wisdom at all right now. I only know that I have to see my partner.”

“Very well, Let me contact Mr. Waverly and we'll see what he has to say about it.”

After a few moments, the doctor came back into the room with Mr. Waverly.

“Well, well, young man. Do you really think that this is the best thing for you right now?”

“I don't give a damn about what's best for me, Mr. Waverly. I have to see Illya. I have to see ... what I did to him.” Napoleon felt the sting of hot tears behind his eyelids and averted his face.

“Well, then. Let's get you into a wheelchair and we'll take you to him.”

Napoleon was put in a wheelchair with a lap robe to cover him and wheeled down the hall toward the intensive care unit. His gorge rose as they neared that unit despite the tranquilizer he'd been injected with. The doctor held open the double doors as Mr. Waverly pushed him through in the wheelchair, and they entered Illya's room.

Mr. Waverly wheeled him up next to Illya's bed – no mean feat considering the tangle of equipment attached to the slender body lying so still in the bed. Napoleon felt warm hands on his shoulders as he lifted his gaze to look at his partner. His heart leaped into his throat as he looked at the bloody, swollen face of the Russian. The golden hair, so silky and fine, was matted with blood around Illya's head, staining the pillow and giving the effect of a bloody halo. But the rest of his face was nearly unrecognizable. He was so swollen that the aristocratic features of the well-loved face were indistinguishable. Bloody slash marks and welts seemed to be everywhere on Illya's skin that Napoleon could see around the heavy bandages. He was dwarfed as he lay in the bed by all the machinery hooked up to him. 

Napoleon felt hot tears sliding down his face to drip onto the hands folded in his lap. “Oh, Illya. Please, tovarishch, please – you've got to hang in there. I couldn't bear it if you didn't.” He hung his head and wept.

Mr. Waverly's hands never left his shoulders as he tried to comfort the young Chief Enforcement Agent. During all the missions on which he had sent his best team, he had never seen an outcome such as this. Never had such a diabolical scheme been practiced on his agents before. 

He had had several intense sessions with Illya privately in his office when the young Russian had come to him after two incidents which had greatly upset him. Both times he had come close to resigning. The first was following an incident on a THRUSH island during which he had tried to assassinate Napoleon but had snapped out of his brainwashing after an intense physical altercation with his partner, an affair known as the THRUSH Roulette Affair. The second was after the Gurnius Affair, during which he'd been forced to torture his partner in order to keep his own cover and not endanger the mission. He conveniently overlooked the fact that if he hadn't taken Napoleon under his auspices, the Chief Enforcement Agent would have been summarily shot. Illya had not been cognizant of his actions while under the effects of the brainwashing, but he had of course known exactly what he was doing when he tortured his partner.

This torture had upset Illya to the point of nearly ending his UNCLE career. He had felt that Napoleon was not safe around him and didn't want to endanger him again. This last feeling was heightened even more when Karmak kidnapped him from the hospital and held him as bait in an attempt to capture and kill Napoleon. Mr. Waverly had barely been able to convince him not to resign after that incident. He'd had to remind Illya that his friendship with Napoleon was strong enough to withstand these attacks on it, and that in their line of work, they could scarcely expect THRUSH not to take advantage of any possible weapon in their arsenal to destroy the famously effective partnership of Solo and Kuryakin.

Napoleon, of course, had understood Illya's actions, if not his guilt. He had never held Illya responsible for the assassination attempt on the casino island. Napoleon was well aware that if Illya had really meant to kill him, there was no way he would have missed at point-blank range. Napoleon certainly hadn't enjoyed the fistfight with his Russian partner, either. He'd had to deliver three powerhouse blows to knock Illya senseless, sending him crashing through wooden latticework to fly head over heels onto the ground.

And he'd had his work cut out for him dealing with the Russian's moods after the Gurnius Affair. When Illya had first heard that it was Napoleon who was captured, his heart had sunk and he'd feared for his partner's life. His anxiety at being in the stronghold of Marshal Gurnius and his flunkies was matched by his anxiety over the fate of his friend and partner. He'd hated what had been done to Napoleon, and castigated himself over not having been able to come up with any better solution. Napoleon had constantly reminded him that it wasn't exactly as though he'd had a lot of time or many chances to develop a strategy. Napoleon's appearance at the stronghold was unexpected and Illya had had to improvise.

All in all, Napoleon had felt that things had turned out well. But still Illya felt bad; still worried that Napoleon wasn't safe with him. If self-flagellation had been an option, Napoleon was sure Illya would have drawn blood gladly. As it was, only time could heal the hurt Illya had felt at what he'd done to Napoleon – that and Napoleon's continued trust and confidence in the blond agent.

As he watched his unconscious friend, memories came to Napoleon of the first few years of their partnership. There had been times when he'd wondered why Illya had sometimes pushed himself in front of Napoleon. He'd wondered if Illya was bothered by his status as number 2, but it had soon become clear to Napoleon that this was not the case. It was simply a matter of Illya's innate protective instincts toward his older partner. Ever the pragmatist, Illya did his best to make sure it was Napoleon who did not suffer harm. Illya had willingly taken on the dirty jobs (although not always without grumbling!), the driving, door-opening, and escorting duties. He'd always employed his own small protective touches toward Napoleon, including grabbing him bodily to steer him away from danger, if necessary. 

Toward the close of the affair involving Sir Rupert and the aging-reversal machine, Illya had pushed Napoleon down into a corner to avoid being struck by the exploding machine. Napoleon had thanked his friend's curiosity on that one because Illya had scanned the notes of the scientist responsible for the machine and the process, realizing that the machine was set to explode. There had been so many such occasions – how could Illya believe that Napoleon could ever doubt his loyalty to the senior agent? Thankfully he hadn't ever belittled his friend's guilt, but he hadn't been able to understand it or its source. His confident view of his blond and enigmatic partner was so absolute that doubt never entered his head.

But now he felt consumed by guilt. Whatever the reason, it had been through his own hands that Illya's injuries had been delivered. And this had been no matter of electrical shock, notwithstanding how painful that shock had been at the time. Napoleon had needed a few days off to recover his strength and to get over the effects of the hypodermic injection administered to him by Terri to counteract the effects of the capsule, but then had been able to return to work fully field-certified. If Illya lived through this, and Napoleon couldn't contemplate the future if he didn't, Napoleon knew that Illya faced an arduous recovery before being recertified. Illya loved his work in the labs, but it was his work in the Enforcement section that was his true motivation. 

Illya, despite his sometimes sullen demeanor and prickly exterior, had at his core a genuine kindness and compassion toward the weak, the abused and the unfortunate. It was Illya who had pushed forward to unlock Alexander's parents from their shackles in the mine. It was Illya who had convinced Mimi that she had the ability to act as a sophisticated, worldly woman despite her naivete. It was Illya who, despite paying taxes to both the American and Russian governments, still managed to send money back home to Russia to help orphans in Kiev. This last fact had been an accidental discovery on Napoleon's part, one of which Illya was unaware. Their fellow Section 2 agents were convinced that Illya had stashes of gold and precious stones in security boxes in banks around the world; only Napoleon knew that Illya wouldn't be able to make his next month's rent from savings if the need arose.

How would Illya feel toward Napoleon when – if – he awoke? Napoleon had to force down his fear at the thought that Illya might not make it. He reached forward to find the young Russian's heavily-bandaged hand and held it briefly, head down.

“Now, now, my boy – all is not lost. We are both perfectly well aware of how strong Mr. Kuryakin is. He will not succumb easily.”

“But his injuries are so terrible, Mr. Waverly. And ... and I'm the one who ...” Napoleon could say no more. The hands on his shoulders gave them a squeeze. The warmth of this paternal gesture was not lost on Napoleon, who lifted his gaze to stare at the older man.

“What am I going to do, Mr. Waverly? How am I going to deal with the guilt from this?”

“I imagine that you will handle it the same way Mr. Kuryakin has. He redoubled his efforts to look after you and fought his battle day-by-day. But I think he has been able to forgive himself. As shall you, in time.”

“Forgive myself! I don't even know everything I did to him yet. How can I forgive myself?”

“Mr. Solo, do you honestly for one moment believe that Mr. Kuryakin would hold you responsible for what happened? If I know that young man, he will feel contrition about his role in this. He had doubts about you – what I mean to say is, he had doubts about whether you'd been subjected to some sort of new process. He chose to defer to Dr. Donner, which I am sure is a mistake he will castigate himself for. You mark my words, Mr. Solo, you will have your hands full dealing with Mr. Kuryakin's guilt.”

Napoleon knew in his heart that what Mr. Waverly had said was true. He thought it was laughable, but true, nevertheless. Illya hadn't ever been able to help taking responsibility for things regarding Napoleon's welfare over which he had no control. This trait was one among many which kept the two men together in UNCLE's best partnership. While Illya did not suffer fools gladly and would accept no responsibility for the consequences of mistakes he had not made, he was quick to accept blame for anything he perceived himself to have fallen short in.

A uniformed nurse entered the room and informed Waverly and Napoleon that they needed to leave. She moved around the room, checking the various monitors and leads hooked up to Illya; Napoleon could scarcely credit how many of them there were. Mr. Waverly took him by the elbow and gently steered him out of the room and back to his own room. After seeing to it that the brunet agent was lying once again in his own hospital bed, Mr. Waverly made a brief stop to speak with one of the doctors before returning to his own office. The doctor entered Napoleon's room and administered a sedative through an IV push, remaining only long enough to ensure that Napoleon fell into a deep sleep.

The next several days had a very similar pattern to them. Napoleon would walk down the short hallway to Illya's room, sit in the chair with his hand covering his partner's, close his eyes and bow his head. Illya was in a drug-induced coma in an effort to allow his body maximum healing. On occasion Napoleon wiped bitter tears of regret from his face, but would not relinquish Illya's hand. Around the bandages encasing it, Napoleon could see the stark bruising against Illya's pale skin. Every inch of skin he could see around the bandages was marked. He'd overheard the doctor speaking to a nurse in the hallway about keeping Illya under for another few days. Apparently the doctor felt that the pain Illya would be in if awake would be intolerable and take too much energy away from healing tissues. 

Finally, on the fourth day, Napoleon was released from the hospital. He'd been seen by the psychiatrists and had checked out medically and mentally, other than his enormous guilt. For that only time could be the remedy; that and Illya's forgiveness. He had marveled at the extent of Illya's guilt toward him; now that the tables were turned, he found himself with similar thoughts. Would Illya ever be able to look at him again? Would he be able to work with Napoleon again? Would he ever completely heal? As his memory returned, Napoleon had told Waverly and the psychiatrists of the apparent brainwashing Illya himself had been forced to undergo at Napoleon's hands.

He told them how Illya had slipped into the persona of “Genya,” whose apparent treason had allowed THRUSH to mount an extensive attack on New York Command headquarters. The extremely clear and painful image of Genya allowing himself to be punished by the partner whom he had admired and respected burned through Napoleon's memory. The sad, upturned face; the soft voice telling Napoleon to do what he would – Napoleon's heart clenched in a terrible ache as these memories washed over him, assailing him.

Waverly had given him paid time off to try to come to terms with his recent experience. But Napoleon still came into Medical every day to sit with Illya. After a week, the doctors decided to let Illya wake up. He had been given extra saline solution and some unique chemical cocktails through his IV to flush the drugs administered to him by Napoleon out of his system. Once his blood finally showed clear, the saline solution was reduced and the other drugs discontinued. Mr. Waverly had called Napoleon in when it appeared that Illya was close to reaching consciousness. Napoleon stood near the back of the room, waiting in the dimness, to see what would happen.

Illya's bed was cranked up, placing the agent in a sitting position. The nurse fluffed several pillows and placed them behind the now painfully thin agent, making sure that Illya did not slide to one side or the other. Slowly, slowly Illya's eyes fluttered open. He stared for some minutes, not focussing on anything, while his eyes adjusted to the dim light. A doctor quickly checked his eyes and his vitals, pulled the sheet up to Illya's shoulders, and left the room. After the door snicked shut, Napoleon moved carefully up to the side of the bed and pulled his usual chair over to sit. He was stiff with apprehension, fear a cold knot in his stomach. He felt nauseated as he slowly took Illya's hand.

“Illya. Illya? Can you hear me?”

After a few moments, the Russian's eyes slid over to look at Napoleon. He didn't seem to recognize him. Just then a nurse entered the room and injected something into Illya's IV. Within a few moments Illya's eyes cleared and he shook his head briefly. The movement obviously caused him pain, but he mastered his reaction and looked once again at Napoleon.

“Napoleon?” Illya's voice sounded hoarse and rusty with disuse. 

“I'm here, partner mine. How are you feeling?”

“I ... Everything hurts. What ... what happened to me?”

“I did, I'm afraid.”

Illya simply stared at him with uncomprehending eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“Illya, how much do you remember?”

Illya painfully laid his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes and lying still so long Napoleon thought he must have gone back to sleep. Finally his blue eyes reopened and he turned to look at Napoleon. His voice, when it came, was low and strained.

“I remember very little, Napoleon. I think perhaps I should be thankful for that.”

“Perhaps you should, for now, Illya, but you and I have a great deal to discuss when you're ready to.”

“Oh, Napoleon – why do I feel so bad, inside? Part of my mind is telling me that I've done something terrible. What did I do, Napoleon? What did I do that was so bad?”

“Nothing. You did nothing wrong. It's what I did that's so terribly wrong.” Napoleon hung his head and stared at the floor as he said this. He slowly lifted his eyes to look at his partner, who sat staring back at him.

“What is it you did, Napoleon? What is it that is upsetting you so?”

“Do you honestly not remember, Illya? I attacked you!”

“You ... attacked me? What was I doing? Were you stopping me from doing something bad?”

“Oh God, Illya! You've got to remember! When I was in that THRUSH lab they started a new brainwashing process on me, and Dr. Donner was their plant here at UNCLE. He finished the technique on me, and had me start it on you. Don't you remember me injecting you?”

“No, my friend, I don't.”

“I didn't just give you the drugs, either. Donner had me convinced that you had turned traitor and were directly responsible for an attack on New York HQ. I nearly beat you to death, Illya.”

Illya's luminous blue eyes opened wide at Napoleon's words. 

“You mean ... you mean that you beat me badly enough to hospitalize me?”

“I mean I nearly killed you. I'm so sorry, Illya. I'm so sorry! I don't know how I can make it up to you. I just don't. I don't see how I ...”

“Stop, my friend. Stop now. You didn't blame me after Dr. Ieato got his hands on me and Barnaby Partridge sent me after you with a gun! I nearly shot you to death.”

“But I didn't suffer so much as a scratch, Illya. I take that back – you landed some pretty hard punches – but nothing lasting. It'll take you weeks to get over what I did to you.”

“Napoleon. Please.” Illya lay his head back again, closed his eyes, and seemed to concentrate on simple breathing for a few moments. His hair was still dirty and matted with blood; it flaked off onto his pillow. Napoleon's hands clenched as a memory of Illya's blood rushing from his broken nose washed over him.

“I should have followed my instincts in spite of Dr. Donner's credentials, Napoleon. I can't help feeling that I brought this on myself.”

“Oh no, you don't!” Napoleon shouted. “You're not responsible for this one! You've got to stop taking the blame anytime I do something stupid, Illya!” Napoleon's voice continued to rise. “UNCLE checked Donner out! How were you supposed to know that he was a THRUSH plant?”

Illya withstood Napoleon's shouting with his customary quiet and calm. “I had suspicions, Napoleon. I did not follow them up. I was so happy to have you back unhurt that I ignored them. I could easily ...”

“Stop it! Stop it!” Napoleon's former treating doctor came running into the room and confronted him.

“What are you shouting at him for? Can't you see he's just barely out of a coma?”

“I'm sorry, doctor. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Illya. I ... I just ....” Napoleon turned and rushed out of the room, not seeing Illya's hand reached out to him. The doctor followed him out into the hall. Illya leaned back on the pillow once again and closed his eyes, but could not stop the tears which forced themselves out from under his tightly clenched eyelids. He stayed that way for some minutes, trying to gather his self-control about him, but finally the pain overcame him and he sobbed aloud. After a few moments his breathing evened out and he fell into a deep natural sleep.

Napoleon ducked into an empty hospital room and leaned his forehead against the cool steel wall, seeking to calm himself. “Oh God, Illya. You can't just forgive me. How am I going to learn to deal with this? You're the closest person in the world to me and I've hurt you unforgivably.” Once he had collected himself, Napoleon knew he had to return to see Illya. He made his way back down the hallway and crept into Illya's room, seeing the pale face asleep on the pillow, tracks of recent tears clearly visible on the bruised cheeks. He stroked the bloodied hair back from the wide forehead, pulled the sheet up closer to his partner's chin, and wished him good night.

On his drive home to his apartment, Napoleon's thoughts whirled in his head. He knew that he would never deliberately hurt his partner. Illya had long ago become much more than a partner and a mere friend. They were something more than that to each other by this time. They encouraged each other to be the best they could; to continue at their jobs despite the numbing personal cost to each of them; they were closer than brothers. Napoleon knew that Illya loved him as a friend – that feeling was mutual. But the nature of their profession was such that they were forced into moral judgments affecting others' lives on an all-too-frequent basis. They were each other's conscience and moral compass. They kept each other on the straight and narrow, lifting each other up when the world became too much, and celebrating with each other when right won over wrong. An old verse from the Bible came to Napoleon as he drove, from deep in his memory as a young child: “Greater love than this hath no man, than that he lay down his life for his friend.”

While he was no longer sure that he truly believed in God, that verse defined his relationship with Illya. Each would lay down his life for the other, and for the unsuspecting world. Theirs was a friendship which transcended normal boundaries because it had to. Other partnerships at UNCLE were close, but Napoleon and Illya had found that, despite being nearly polar opposites, they somehow completed each other as partners. Each brought his own particular strengths, and weaknesses, to the partnership, and this had made them Waverly's top team. But their partnership had extended beyond work, and they had become close friends, as well. They were both deeply committed to UNCLE's ideals: brotherhood among nations; equality of men. 

They were also committed to Alexander Waverly's leadership. The two Section 2 agents could not have been led by a man who had less integrity. He demanded too much of them for his own character not to matter greatly. He embodied UNCLE's ideals and, whether the three men were aware of it or not, he represented a formidable paternal figure to the two younger men.

Napoleon finally drew into his parking space, locked his car, and took the elevator up to his apartment. Once in he secured the alarm and did his customary quick check of his rooms. The UNCLE cleanup crew had been quite thorough. There were few traces of the events which had occurred in the apartment. The carpet in the corner on which Illya's body had lain after Napoleon's savage attack had been thoroughly shampooed and the rest of the apartment had been cleaned. Even the dishes from Illya's ill-fated breakfast had been washed, dried and put away before Napoleon had returned home from the hospital. Napoleon undressed quickly, throwing his clothes into the hamper in his bedroom, took a quick shower, and went to bed. His mental and emotional exhaustion led him into blissfully deep sleep.

Napoleon returned to full duty several days later. He had a great deal of paperwork to catch up on, some training to conduct, and personnel assignments to consider as part of his position as CEA. Mr. Waverly was not yet sending him out of the office on missions, allowing him to continue his daily visits to Illya. After another week had elapsed, Illya was finally well enough to go home. His rib was mending well and most of his bruises had faded considerably. He still bore cuts and had some welts, but nearly all the bandages had come off. He had been put on vitamin C supplements to help his healing and had been approved for very light training to start the process of restoring his muscle tone. Napoleon waited patiently with him in his hospital room as the discharge process was completed, and both agents were surprised when the door opened and Mr. Waverly entered the austere hospital room with a little nod.

“Gentlemen. So, I understand that you are finally able to go home, Mr. Kuryakin. Do you have someone to see to you?”

Napoleon jumped in. “Well, sir, I hadn't gotten around to telling him yet, but I've outfitted the guest room in my apartment for Illya, if it's okay with him. Illya?”

Illya looked up at Napoleon from where he was sitting on the hospital bed, smiling shyly and nodding his acceptance. “I would be happy to stay with you for a while, Napoleon.”

Napoleon was relieved that Illya hadn't put up an argument. While a part of him felt uncomfortable about having the partner he had so viciously victimized actually stay with him in his own apartment, he was afraid that he would start withdrawing from Illya if they didn't spend time together. He hoped that they would be able to talk through all that had happened.

Napoleon helped Illya into his car and drove the two of them to his apartment. They rode up in the elevator in silence, and Illya sagged against the wall while Napoleon disarmed his alarm system and let them in. Once through the door, Napoleon quickly rearmed the alarm and did his customary check of his rooms while Illya made his way to Napoleon's comfortable couch. He sank down into the overstuffed cushions and put his head back with a sigh, closing his eyes. Upon his return to the livingroom where Illya was sitting, Napoleon stood uncertainly, not sure what to do next.

“Illya, is there anything I can get you?”

“Perhaps a glass of water, Napoleon. I require nothing else at the moment.”

Napoleon went into his kitchen, filled a tumbler with ice and ran the tap water a few moments before filling the glass. He walked back to Illya, handed him the glass, and sat down at the other end of the couch while Illya drank. When he was finished, Illya set the glass down on Napoleon's coffee table and turned to his older partner.

“Napoleon, if you don't stop this, I will have to leave.”

Napoleon was shaken out of his momentary stupor. “What do you mean, leave?”

“I can't stay here and face your constant guilt. I am as much to blame for the situation as you. I could have questioned the situation from the beginning but let myself be persuaded not to pursue it by Dr. Donner.”

“Illya, you know this isn't your fault.”

“But if it isn't mine, it also isn't yours.”

Illya settled himself more comfortably on the couch, still favoring his healing rib, and looked Napoleon squarely in the eyes.

“Napoleon, the nature of our job is that we are subject to these things. I am willing to make a promise to you. I will stop blaming myself for my part in this if you will do the same. Do you really think that I hold any blame toward you? I am not permanently injured. I have suffered no permanent harm. I am no longer subject to the brainwashing, my injuries are healing well, and my main concern is that you will withdraw from me and that our partnership and friendship will fall apart.”

The magnitude of this speech, so unusual for Illya, grabbed Napoleon's attention utterly. He slowly began to realize that Illya really didn't blame him. He hadn't understood how Illya could feel so upset after Thrush Roulette and Gurnius; now he got it. He also realized that his guilt was misplaced. He could feel sorrow for his attacks upon Illya, but he himself had been victimized by THRUSH and Dr. Donner. He had never done anything deliberately to hurt his partner; such a thought didn't exist in his mind. Suddenly he became aware that Illya was looking at him expectantly.

Napoleon cleared his throat and began to speak. “I guess you're right. The real shame here would be if we let THRUSH tear our partnership apart. I don't intend to let them do that, partner mine. I still feel awful about what I did, but I realize I wasn't in control of my actions. But you're going to have to put up with a lot of pampering. It's the only way I can think of right now to make me feel better toward you.”

“A lot of pampering? What kind of pampering?”

“Well, home-cooked meals, for starters. Lots of rest and relaxation. Lots of books to read – I'm even willing to go get you your physics texts and journals. As long as you don't read them to me.”

Illya chuckled. “I suppose I can put up with this. What other kind of pampering?”

“Well, I know you don't like it when I 'mother-hen' you, but I'm afraid I won't be able to help myself until I know that you're back to full function. I suppose you wouldn't mind if we ordered dinner in tonight, to begin with?”

“Not if it's Chinese. The hospital food was terrible. I did eat it, though.”

“And I've arranged for delivery of some special groceries for you. Oh, and I'll be taking you to your physical therapy and training appointments personally. I want to make sure my partner gets back up to par.”

“How long do you think this pampering will take?”

“Oh, a couple of weeks or so. Mr. Waverly has been most gracious about giving me a flexible schedule. I have to stay on top of my CEA duties, but he's not planning to send me on any missions for the duration of your stay here.”

“Napoleon, this really is unnecessary. You do realize that.”

“Illya, it's necessary for me. Please let me do this for you.”

“If that's what you need, Napoleon.”

“Thank you.”

Illya suddenly averted his eyes, gazing at the floor. After a few moments, he lifted his gaze to his partner's face and spoke.

“Napoleon. My trust and confidence in you are unshaken. You are the closest person in the world to me and I respect you deeply. Nothing will ever change that. You are my friend through thick and thin, and no matter what life hands us, you will always be able to rely on me.”

“Likewise, partner, likewise.”

“It only remains for us to be true one to the other; to our admirable goals; and to the welfare of our fellow man. We can do no less if we are to be judged to have integrity by those who follow after us.”


End file.
